


Day 4: “Pumpkin spice…what?!”

by Yomz



Series: October Fanfic Prompts [4]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:20:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4935736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yomz/pseuds/Yomz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pumpkin spice lattés, temptation, and not enough books to qualify as a proper café.</p><p>Can be seen as gen or slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 4: “Pumpkin spice…what?!”

“CanIgetagrandédouble-shotpumpkinspicelatteblendedwithiceanextrashotoftheflavorsyrupandonlyhalftheiceyouusuallyuse[1]? Oh, and whipped cream?” The tall man in a perfectly-tailored suit smiled pleasantly behind his sunglasses at the confused and flustered barista, still trying to catch up with the rushed order. “And two of those little salted caramel cake pops,” he added, at a much more reasonable pace.

“I’m sorry, you wanted a... grandé iced pumpkin spice latte with… what?[2]” The man grinned cheerfully and repeated his order, only slightly slower and no more comprehensibly as the people behind him in line groaned in annoyance, tapped their feet impatiently, or tried to figure out what was taking so long.

“I’m sorry; he said he would like a pumpkin spice latte blended with ice,” his shorter, rounder, and much more blond friend clarifies, “using only half the amount of ice as usual and with an extra pump of the pumpkin spice syrup. And whipped cream.”

“Don’t forget the two cake pops!” he calls after the barista, still grinning away happily like he’s not holding up a line that has grown out of the door in the time it’s taken him to order.

“Honestly,” the friend huffs as another barista hands him their pastry and directs them firmly but politely towards the pick-up area, “I don’t understand why you insist on getting such an… extravagant drink, Crowley.” He doesn’t do as good a job hiding the intense stare at the aforementioned treat as he thinks, and Crowley grabs a second straw along with his order as he’s led to the table.

“Cake pop, angel?” Crowley offers the treat with the air of one offering a forbidden fruit, and counts it as a win that Aziraphale takes it, even if he is ignoring Crowley’s wicked grin. “It’s only available during Autumn, and we’re hardly ever in America, so I figured I might as well take advantage of the situation and let myself indulge a little.”

Aziraphale scoffs slightly, and pointedly looks anywhere around the café they’ve found themselves in except the drink now sitting halfway between them with it’s two straws. “Rather proud of you for that one, are you?” There’s a depressing lack of books in the room and Aziraphale spares a moment to mourn before miracling [3] up a bookshelf in the corner and a few choice offerings.

“Hm?” Crowley mumbled around a mouthful of cake pop before taking it out slowly and frowning across the table. “I always thought it was your lot’s idea; a sweet innocent treat for the season and gone before you can overindulge,” he pauses with a thoughtful frown, “too much, anyway.”

At that, Aziraphale seems to decide it’s no longer an accursed item devilish trickery but in fact a peace offering and treat offered by an old friend, and cheerfully takes a long sip. “Too rich and delectable for upstairs,” he says thoughtfully, “but too pleasant and soothing for down. Humans.” He grins at Crowley, and not for the first time Crowley can’t help but wonder if he’s really chosen to stick around for humanity or if the angel had more to do with his decision to stay.

“Now, the drive-through speaker phones[4]. That’s one of my finest works,” Crowley says smugly, and Aziraphale just sighs and hands the drink back. It’s one way to keep his mouth busy, at least.

[1] It would have been a very impressive feat for the customer to have said this all in one breath had he, in fact, needed to breathe.

[2] Anyone who works retail long enough eventually figures out how to pick key details out of a long breathless rush of nonsense; it’s the only way most customers can communicate, after all. There are limits, even among the most talented.

[3] Angel was a rather literal pet-name from the fallen angel. A little more on-the-nose than Crowley would prefer, but Aziraphale seemed pleased by it so he got by.

[4] Just the speakerphones. Humans had made drive-thrus themselves without any external help at all, despite what customers and employees alike may suspect.


End file.
